Can you imagine Sargon returning to bed after being told by Spencer that he should be thankful that Spencer pointed out he wasn’t as smart as he thought he was?

He probably crawled into bed late - after spending an hour salvaging his ego on another stream following his flight from the debate. His cow wife likely turned over and asked him what was wrong, and - breathing heavily - he brushed her off. Neither are sexually attracted to each other. It’s likely Sargon’s obesity prevents him from satisfying her.

She thinks about bringing up the fact that the family’s finances are only getting worse. Maybe he should leave YouTube behind and get a real job. But she doesn’t say anything - she’d hate for him to fly into one of his impotent rages and explode when one of her children, not his, misbehaves - which is inevitable given how little respect they have for the soft man who pretends to be their father.

He rolls away from her. His fat prevents him from laying comfortably on his side. The pressure on his organs already causes him perpetual unease. He can’t help but think about Spencer, the handsome wealthy man who humiliated him. He’s brought back to the terror and helplessness that he felt as a child being bullied by older boys for reasons he never understood. “I’m smarter than Spencer.” He says in his mind, “How dare Spencer treat me this way? And yet, he knows that Spencer sleeps surrounded by a loyal cadre of followers who would risk their lives for him, next to a beautiful woman who he dominates in the classical sense. Spencer is a household name, and Sargon is now a joke in the only place that ever gave him any attention.

Sargon wonders why he doesn’t inspire, why the only “friends” he has are strangers viewed through a computer monitor. He rationalizes, pleads with himself - all the time avoiding the real answer that, for all his “intelligence,” others are instinctually repulsed by him and his nihilistic lifestyle.

He drifts to sleep and dreams what his life would be like in a better world. He has the financial security to live comfortably. His physical form is a true reflection of his self-worth. People desire him – women sexually and men ideologically. His ideas, shaped through decades of study and struggle, would change the political zeitgeist. He looks in the mirror of his dream home and recoils in horror: He’s become Richard Spencer.

Awakening in a cold sweat, he shambles over to his desktop and checks Twitter. He’s a laughing stock. It’s like he’s a schoolboy all over again. He read all the books and got the correct answer on all the tests. He knew he was right and they were wrong but no one cared then and no one cares now. He swallows uncomfortably.

He feels a hand on his shoulder. A powerful black hand.

“Am I white?” Laurence Fishburne asks.

“I... I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Yes you do. Am I white?”

“I can’t say. I can’t let them win.”

“This is your last chance. After this there is no turning back. You take the blue pill, the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes. Remember, all I’m offering is the truth, nothing more.”

“Blue. Give me the blue.”

And then Sargon wakes up, if you could call it that, back in his meager home in his meager life. He knows what he must do to be happy, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He’ll keep drowning himself in sugar and alcohol. The only thing he’ll leave behind when his body gives out is a Youtube Archive, which will consist of increasingly petty videos with declining view counts. Eventually he’ll change his name and retreat to the lower management hell he was always destined for, his only forays into politics being glimpses of the men who dismissed him on television or in watercooler banter.